Alexandra Sokoloff - Book of Shadows

“There is no grace, there is no guilt…”

Garrett spoke aloud to his partner from where he stretched on the floor of the van. “I was wrong. You were right. It’s the kid.”

For a moment he thought Landauer was already asleep. Then his voice came, disembodied, from the other side of the van. “This is a weird one. It baffles the fuck out of me.”

Garrett said slowly, “Yeah.”

And then they were out.

The nap was lifesaving, and both detectives were able to shower and change into spare clothes in the locker room of Schroeder before once again convening in the conference room with Malloy and Carolyn. Normally Malloy would not have shown hide nor hair on a Sunday, his church day, but apparently the Carmody name trumped God, and of course time was of the essence.

As Garrett began to list the evidence, he knew they had the charges nailed just by watching Carolyn’s and Malloy’s faces.

“The DJ at Cauldron puts Erin and Jason together just hours before her death. Erin’s roommate says Jason was obsessed with her and was out with her that night. Erin’s missing cell phone was found in Jason’s car. We have a pair of jeans taken from Jason’s room which have traces of blood and semen that we believe DNA tests will match to Erin and Jason, confirming they had sex that night, and there are similar traces in Jason’s car. We have a CD from Jason’s band that contains the symbols and numbers that were carved into Erin’s torso. We have three student witnesses willing to testify to Jason’s unbalanced mental state. And we have a whole collection of occult ritual objects from a lockbox under Moncrief’s bed, including a dagger like the one used to kill Erin. It’s being tested for blood residue right now. The rest of it—well, none of it looks good.” He passed out photos of the ceremonial objects.

The silence was electric as Carolyn and Malloy looked over the photos. Garrett and Landauer held each other’s eyes over the table.

“This is very strong,” Carolyn declared, looking up. Her face was shining. “Very strong. We should have zero trouble getting a grand jury to hand down an indictment. When will we have DNA results?”

Garrett was the complete professional as he answered her. “The lab will be able to tell us unofficially within two days. The full report will take a couple of weeks because of corroborative tests. But we can match blood type, and the semen taken from Erin’s body was from a secretor, so we have the blood type on that as well.”

“That’ll work,” she said, writing. “How soon can you get me a charging package?” She looked to Malloy, and Malloy raised his eyebrows at the detectives.

Garrett and Landauer looked at each other, calculating. A charging package was a daunting document: a presentation of all the evidence, lab reports, witness testimony, photos, and evidence lists that the DA’s office needed to file charges. It would also be used in negotiations with Moncrief’s attorney, to show them how strong the case was and apply pressure for a plea. The partners were painfully light on sleep to begin with, but the nap in the CSU van and the shower had helped.

Landauer was already thinking out loud. “All the lab tests have been expedited. We should be getting results throughout the evening—print matches from the car, the blood screens…”

Garrett added, “The phone records will take a while, but we’ve got the call logs from the cell phones, and the IT guys should be able to open the computer files on both laptops…” Then he frowned. “I’d like to be able to talk to the other band members, too.”

“Do you really need those witness accounts to make a preliminary case?” Malloy interrupted, with an edge.

Garrett weighed it, conceded, “Probably not. But, Lieutenant, if we could get in to see Moncrief tonight, we might just be able to get the whole thing out of him. Especially with the stuff we found under the bed—”

“It’s not going to happen,” Carolyn said. “Moncrief’s family has hired Merrill James.”

There was no need for her to elaborate. James was one of the two top defense attorneys in the state, a celebrity lawyer for celebrity cases.

“Obviously they know we’re going to be charging Moncrief with Erin’s murder,” Carolyn continued. “James has already gotten a technical restraining order stating that no law enforcement official can question Moncrief unless James is present. And James hasn’t been returning calls today—I’ve tried.”

They all sat, absorbing this news.

Malloy narrowed his eyes toward the detectives. “We have twenty-eight hours left on the initial forty-eight-hour hold for the assault on a peace officer arrest. Can we get a charging package together in time to arrest him again for Erin Carmody’s murder before he’s released on bail?” His voice seemed curtly challenging, but then again, it always did.

“We can do it,” Garrett said.

“You got it,” Landauer agreed.

“There’s another thing, and this is important.” Carolyn put her manicured hands flat on the table. “The office has directed me to go for a no-bail hold, and of course I agree. So we need the charging document to reflect that Moncrief is either a flight risk or a danger to the community, preferably both.” She nodded toward Landauer. “Now, the attack on Detective Landauer goes a long way toward ‘danger to the community,’ but can you build from there?”

Garrett felt a wave of fatigue, and forced himself to focus. “Flight risk, I don’t know,” he said slowly. “We didn’t get anything from anyone we talked to that would make a case for it. Erin’s roommate Shelley Forbes will testify that she felt threatened by Moncrief, and so will Moncrief’s ex-roommate, Bryce Brissell, but he’s not the most credible witness.”

“Anything that goes to premeditation would help. E-mails, threats,” Carolyn said encouragingly. “See what you can put together. I’ll start on my end with these notes so far, and fax me what you’ve got as lab results come in. I’m totally available to you,” she finished, looking at Garrett without a hint of double entendre.

Malloy pushed back in his chair. “I’ve called in a couple of typists to transcribe tapes and reports. They’ll be at your disposal for as long as you need them,” he said, but he avoided eye contact with Garrett as he said it. “I want this done.”

As the partners spread their reports and notes and tapes out over the long table in the back of the detectives’ bureau, the reality of the mountain of work they had ahead of them sank in. Since their arrival at the landfill yesterday morning, they had worked the case nonstop, without enough of a break even to do more than file the most preliminary notes in the murder book. They were starting from scratch.

They began by setting up the two typists Malloy had provided (not for the detectives’ convenience, Garrett knew well enough) with the witness interview tapes to transcribe.

Back at the long table of files, Garrett looked over the clear plastic evidence crates and spotted the maroon leather-bound book in a top crate.

He reached for a box of latex gloves and slipped a pair on to take the book from the crate, then sat at the table with it. It was heavy, the blood-colored leather soft to the touch.

He opened the cover of the book. The pages were fibery, document quality, giving the volume an antique feel, and the writing was completely hand-blocked, in black calligraphy pen—and completely incomprehensible: a twiglike alphabet that looked vaguely familiar, but was no language that Garrett could name.

Garrett carefully turned the pages with gloved hands. Amid the writing there were drawings as well, including sketches of pentagrams… and on later pages, the number 333 and the triple triangle design that had been carved into Erin Carmody’s torso.